Survivors Guilt
by footshooter
Summary: Situations like these are difficult to get your head around... But alcohol and video games help. Deleted and reposted coz I am a total and utter idiot... :


**a/n: **I'm kinda not sure if I like this. Definitely not my _best_, anyway. But I'm tired and it's late and as such I'm pretty uncertain on the characterisation but, yeah, what the hell, I might as well post it. The film is incredible, but do heed there are _**big spoilers**_ here so don't complain! Night, all!  
Just also realised I could've just changed catagories instead of reposting and losing everyone. I'm such a tool. Sorry guys!

* * *

The _Avengers_. Clint still couldn't get his head around it. They were the _Avengers_. They'd saved the world.

And yet he was being crushed by a sticking sense of _guilt_ over what he'd done. He knew it wasn't his fault; Natasha had told him, Steve had told him, Bruce had told him, hell, even Tony Stark had patted him on the back and muttered the words but he couldn't shake the feeling.

He was trying to black it out, but he could remember details of shooting arrows into machines to override systems, to kill people… He sighed. It was _Loki_ who made him do things. But it must've been in his own head, his own _nature_ anyway, because he could remember trying to struggle his way out, break to the surface. And Dr Selvig had managed to put in the override so… maybe he just hadn't fought hard enough.

It was one of those things, he supposed. In an impossible situation you always manage to beat yourself up, no matter how well it ends. And it had ended well, if you didn't count the jumping off buildings, multiple injuries and fighting with a concussion. Natasha had a hell of a swing on her. To think Loki managed to take someone's heart and override their head and the spell was broken merely by a few cracks around the head by an irate Russian.

They were sat in Tony's ruined monstrosity, right at the top floor where all the windows were smashed in. the night was cloudy, a few rain showers here and there, and so New York wasn't all that cold. Which meant that the smashed in windows didn't matter so much. Once they'd cleared the glass out of the way.

Thor had taken Loki away with him to somewhere else in the galaxy, and so Clint was sat slightly outside the others, where Natasha, Bruce, Steve and Tony were drinking expensive alcohol, playing games (computer and cards) and generally trying to unwind. The city was devastated and, outside the broken windows, the sounds of sirens in the darkness and people starting to fix and secure the damage were audible.

"Hey, Clint!" Tony shouted, his words a bit slurred. "Get over here. You'll be better than Bruce at computer games, right?"

Clint shrugged, "I'm not sure."  
"_Course_ you are. Bruce can go and play cards with Natasha and Steve because that's more his _era_. Come on. You shoot zombies with me."

Clint rolled his eyes but nonetheless stood up and rejoined the party. He felt a stab in his gut that he was even _considering_ enjoying himself when so many had died by his hands. He ignored it as best as he could and sat down on the beanbag next to Tony, who refilled his glass. He stunk of liquor, and it made Clint smile. Bruce was smirking behind his deck of cards and Clint couldn't help but notice his poker face was terrible. But Natasha would win anyway. She always did.

Tony threw a controller at Clint and he caught it in the hand not occupied by his glass. He took a swig and then set it down, gripping the controller. Tony smirked.

"No bows, I'm afraid. You'll have to stick with guns."

Clint laughed, "Yeah. In a zombie apocalypse I think guns would be more on people's minds."  
Tony shrugged and started the game.

They played long into the night, by which time the others were all huddled under blankets in a sheltered corner of the room, falling asleep with glasses half full and cards scattered around them. Clint wondered if Tony's eyes hurt as much as his did, and if his breath smelt as much of alcohol as Tony's. They were staring at the screen feverously, eyes wide, desperate to finish the level and get to safety before they could sleep. It was kinda invigorating.

"Hey, you need to stop beating yourself up you know," Tony said, his voice soft and barely audible under the noise of zombies and gunfire. "I meant it when I said that none of that was your fault."  
Clint sighed, "I know. It's just… difficult."

"Me and you saved the world, Clint. I think a few homicides while being controlled by a lunatic demigod from another planet is kinda _small_ compared to saving the world."

Tony's words should not at all be reassuring, but they were. Clint blew a zombies head off a smiled. Blood coated the camera, speckling his view with red for a couple of seconds.

"Nice shot."  
"Thanks."

The thanks was for more than the compliment on his aim, and he was pretty sure Tony knew it even if he didn't show it.

"How long do you think we'll be able to hide before something else comes along that needs our attention?"  
Tony snorted, "We should place bets. I bet it isn't long."  
"If we're placing bets you need to be more specific than 'not long'."

"They'll totally take advantage of us now. It'll be like, oh, a murder? Avengers. Bank robbery? Avengers. Divorce settlement? Avengers. And we'll have to go along and decide who gets the dog."

Clint grimaced, "I hope not. Can you imagine?"  
"Yep. It scares me."

"When's Pepper coming back?"  
"Couple days? Maybe tomorrow. I don't remember."  
"Will she be okay with us crashing on your floor?"  
"I was kinda hoping you all had homes to go to…" Tony said, but he had mirth in his eyes. Even as he hacked his way through a horde.

"Natasha does. I was based in the base that blew up, so I don't. And I'm pretty sure Bruce was in India. So you're stuck with us."

Tony sighed overdramatically.

"Fine, but you'll have to share the spare room. _And_no getting up in the middle of the night and knocking on the door because you're worried because it sounds like daddy's hurting mommy."

Clint laughed, "Yessir." He mock saluted, and yet still managed to hit the zombie on the screen. Tony pouted.

"Man, skills like that are _not_ fair. Did you do anything but play games at that base?"

"Not much else _to_ do."  
"Ah, so you lied when you said you didn't know you'd be good at computer games then?"

Clint shrugged, "Maybe. Maybe I was just being modest."

"There is no place for modesty in this world. I embody that."  
"Too right you do."

Bruce snored extremely loudly, and they both jumped, glancing round in their drunken state.

"Jesus, think that was the _other guy_ trying to get out?"  
"Mighta been."

"He's not really scary anymore. Not after he saved me."  
"He's still big, green and angry. That's pretty scary."

Clint drained his glass and squinted at the screen which he was _convinced _was moving.

"Is the screen swaying?"  
"I think so."  
"It's kinda putting me off."  
"I actually hadn't noticed. If this is you put off, I'm never playing with you sober."

"Oh look, rescues here."

They took out the last of the zombies and completed the level.

"Hell yeah. High five!" Tony said, and they high fived. Tony flicked off the screen and lay back on the beanbag, dragging a duvet over himself. "Man, I'm wrecked."  
"I need to piss."  
"Second on the left. No right. No, left."  
"Alright, but I'm pissing in whatever room that is so you better hope you're right."

Clint stumbled to his feet and staggered out of the room and down the hallway. He'd had a good night, playing the game and occasionally tearing his eyes away from the screen to banter with the others in their card game. Now he was extremely drunk and very, very tired. Luckily for Tony, the room he'd directed him to was the right one.

On the way back to the room where the others slept he managed to stagger into the rough edges of a table and grimaced, lifting up his shirt to see a red mark that he just _knew_ would bruise in the morning.

"That's gonna hurt in the morning," he muttered, and Tony laughed.

"_Everything_ is gonna hurt in the morning."

Clint chuckled and dropped down onto the beanbag, his limbs half on the floor. He felt a duvet hit his face and got tangled up in it before he managed to spread it over himself, much to Tony Stark's amusement.

He closed his eyes and didn't see the faces of victims staring back at him like he imagined he would. He didn't actually feel too guilty anymore either, but that was probably the alcohol. He imagined he'd wake up with a pounding headache and a deep self-loathing in the morning regardless.

He sighed, drifting off to sleep and basking in the notion that really, _it wasn't his fault_.


End file.
